Page 48 of Don't Say A Word

“Give it here.” I’m seething by this stage but Marcel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Say please,” he mocks.

He smirks and I snap, storming toward him and ramming him against the wall, my arm cutting across his throat.

“Please,” I hiss in his face. It takes all my willpower not to hit him. With one final warning glare, I rip the bottle out of his grasp and walk out the door.

Marcel chuckles. “Good boy.”

And that does it.

Turning quickly, I land one sharp punch straight to his nose, sending him reeling back against the wall, blood dripping.

“Stay,” I order and walk into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

I drink myself into oblivion. I can’t stop thinking about her, so close, so tempting. The way she smelled. The way she looked at me. The way her hand trembled as she lifted it, wanting to touch. The fear that flashed across her eyes when I twisted her away. Everything within me has been so tightly wound since I came here. A constant battle.

I take a swig straight from the bottle, shaking my head as the liquid burns my throat. Walking over to the screen, I flick it on. She is trying on some of the other dresses, popping into the bathroom each time to check out her reflection. Her fingers brush over the material delicately and I have to close my eyes a moment to stop myself from imagining they are mine.

I take another swig from the bottle. Another and another. She’s moved from the dresses to the lingerie. She pulls one from the rack. It’s black and lacy with fishnet stockings. She sort of laughs as she looks at it, then shrugs and starts to pull it on. Beginning with the underpants, she threads them over her legs and pulls them up to slip over her hips. My cock hardens instantly. Then she takes the bra, sliding the straps over her shoulders and reaching behind to do up the hooks. Not having a lot of material, the bra only serves to accentuate what she naturally has, pushing her breasts fuller, rounder.

I groan and adjust myself, the constraint of my jeans making my erection almost painful. Turning her back to the camera, she threads one leg at a time through the fishnet stockings. The cheeks of her ass are exposed in the thong. I undo the buttons of my jeans, reaching in to release myself. Due to days of denial in the face of temptation, I’m fucking hard as steel. After taking another swig from the bottle, I begin to stroke myself, too drunk at this stage to care if Marcel walks in or not.

The final thing she does is reach down and pull on a pair of high heeled black shoes. And then she begins to walk around the room, her eyes flicking toward the camera as though she knows I’m watching.

I pump my fist, the need to come rising quickly as she stops in front of the camera. She stares directly into the lens as she lifts a hand and holds it at her neck before letting it fall ever so slowly down her body. Her fingers trail over her breasts and stomach and I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the fingers are mine. Imagining that I’m lying on the ground as she stomps a high heel over my chest. Imagining her eyes looking up at me as she takes me in her mouth.

It only takes one more glance at her to finish me. I shoot my load into a towel and immediately feel disgusted. I don’t know who I’ve become. This isn’t who I am, some disgusting pervert that wanks himself off to the image of a girl trapped in a room.

Draining the last of the whiskey into my throat, I toss onto my side, facing the wall and pull the blanket over my head, leaving Mia still staring at me through the lens of the camera.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

RYKER

I wake in the dead of the night. There is no light. No sound. The TV screen has been turned off but I don’t hear Marcel’s snores. I’m still partially drunk when I get to my feet and have to reach for the wall to steady myself. I stumble down the hall to find Mia’s monitor blank, the screen showing nothing but darkness.

Fear rolls as waves of nausea and it sobers me instantly. Racing across to her cell, I rip the door open.

Marcel is there.

He has her in chains, arms stretched above her head and he’s wrapped around her from behind, his fingers plunged inside.

I see red. Nothing but red. It’s like my vision is stained with it and all I want is blood. I tear him away and toss him to the ground. His eyes are wide with shock and terror as he cowers below me. I lose count of how many times I drive my fist into his face. He tries to shield himself, covering his face with his hands but it doesn’t stop me. His body is covered in blood, but it’s not his, it’s hers. Punch after punch my knuckles hit bone. I’m not striking hard enough to do any serious damage, but enough to rough up his pretty face. Enough to vent some of the rage inside me. I don’t know what it is that makes me stop, probably the thought of what Senior would do if I killed him without permission, but eventually, I pull myself away, getting to my feet and leaving him as a bloodied pulp.

“You’re done here,” I spit out the words. “Get out before I change my mind.”

He tries to stand but stumbles and crashes to the ground, pathetic whimpers falling from his mouth. I just watch as he struggles, a sick satisfaction settling in my veins. It isn’t until he leaves that I allow myself to look at her. Tears are streaming down her face, cheeks red from where he slapped her. I lower the chains, but it isn’t until I step behind her that I see the wounds on her back. He’s broken flesh. Deep welts are already beginning to turn purple. They cover her back, her backside and her thighs.

How could I let this happen? If I wasn’t so pissed, if I hadn’t drunk so much, would I have known earlier? Could I have stopped him?

I’m careful when I lift her into my arms, trying not to touch the open wounds, trying not to inflict her with any more pain. Her head slumps against my shoulder. Her arms cling to my neck as I test the temperature before stepping into the shower. Blood washes from her as soon as she’s under the water.

I want to kill him.

I want him to suffer for what he’s done.

As if needing a distraction, her hands trace the patterns of the tattoos that cover my shoulders and chest. Her touch is light. Hesitant. It ignites my body, sending sensations of arousal through every cell. Even like this, even battered and bruised, she is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

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